


I Dream of Castiel

by JuliaHouston, SoulSurvivor_36



Category: I Dream of Jeannie, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - I Dream of Jeannie (TV) Fusion, Anal Sex, Crack Crossover, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, hidden sexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-01-04 11:23:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21196865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuliaHouston/pseuds/JuliaHouston, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoulSurvivor_36/pseuds/SoulSurvivor_36
Summary: Rescued from a bottle (and a deserted island) by Dean Winchester - a U.S. astronaut - a scantily clad genie named Castiel becomes his slave and falls in love with him. To the genie's frustration, Dean resists him, finding many excuses to not give in to his advances, including his upcoming wedding to General Roman's daughter, Charlie.  Unlike most genie stories, there are no three wishes rule - so Castiel uses his magic all the time, trying to please Dean, often without talking to him about it first.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [steeleye1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/steeleye1/gifts).

> Hey there!
> 
> This wonderful mish-mash of worlds is the latest TVau and cross-over for the FicFacer$2019 Charity Auction and it is the first story Julia and I are collaborating on.
> 
> Expect funny and sexy and outrageous things in this adventure set in the 1960's when astronauts were venerated and gay rights were only just starting to come out and homosexual acts could get you arrested, jailed/committed by law. (Sorry, that sounds a bit darker than I intended it to... but I'm not taking it back... context is important)

Major Dean Winchester was too well trained for his disappointment to show in his voice as he acknowledged the command from Houston to abort the mission. The last engine had fired, and he wasn’t going to make it to orbit.

Now his priorities were surviving and bringing the capsule back in one piece.

Calmly, though his teeth were grinding just a tad, which the doc would comment on later back at base, no doubt, Dean ran through the checklist. He quickly encountered his second problem: the location beacon wasn’t working right.

It wasn’t a huge issue, as he would be tracked all the way back to splashdown on radar, and there was nothing he could do about it now, so he reported the problem to Houston and went to the next item on the checklist.

When the ‘chutes deployed, he noticed the capsule was heavy on splashdown, and hitting the water was less than pleasant. Worse, he noted structural damage in the capsule. Was he going to have to blow the hatch and lose the capsule?

“Damnit,” he told no one in particular, going over his options. Through his portal, which was more for him to be seen in than for him to see anything, he spotted land—a very small island, in fact. With a little luck—Yes! The sea current was taking him that way.

In the end, he did have to blow the hatch and deploy a raft, but the capsule went down in shallow water, easily visible in the crystal sea. His suit got a bit singed from the electricals’ response to being flooded, but he was definitely walking away—or boating away—from this one.

With a smile of triumph, he got on the little sandy beach with his raft and life gear. By himself, it was damn hard to get out of his suit, and he was soaked with sweat in the tropical sun before he managed it. Then he checked his gear, set his personal locator beacon, and went about scraping an “SOS” into the sand.

Next, he grabbed some branches to line the letters.

Wait, the thing in his hand wasn’t a branch. Bemused, he looked at the long bottle he’d picked up. It was pretty, some sort of antique, really, and it looked Arabian or Oriental. With a laugh, he popped out the ornate stopper and peered inside. It was dark. He upended it, but nothing came out.

Thinking he could find a maker’s mark, he rubbed some sand from the side, and then watched in wonder as thick, sweet-smelling blue smoke poured from the bottle.

“Hey!” he shouted, throwing the thing to the sand. The smoke continued to pour out, and then it formed a column, long and straight and thick and—

“What the devil?!” 

The smoke had cleared, and an extremely handsome man was standing there instead. Dean’s attention was caught by two of the bluest eyes he’d ever seen, set below a messy fringe of blackest hair, but his eyes couldn’t stay away long from the man’s outfit, which was straight out of a tale of the  _ Arabian Nights _ .

He wore a dark blue sleeveless top that beautifully set off his broad shoulders and smooth, well-defined chest. The man’s arms were nicely tan with gracefully curved deltoids, triceps, and biceps. Dean’s eyes travelled down the length of them before being drawn to a flat stomach, the midnight fabric cropped just below where Dean imagined his belly button would be. The jut of his hip bones and the beginning of his pubic lines were nearly obscene as they disappeared at what seemed the absolute last chance into a pair of thin, almost not-there pants that flared at the hips but then narrowed to hug the man’s calves and ankles.

The whole outfit was soft. The wind played with the featherlight clothes, alternating between billowing it around and indecently hugging the man’s hard body. There was a strange glistening, hazy quality to the man, like he had stepped right out of a half-dream or was still part smoke as he took a calculated, determined step forward.

Looking all the way down, Dean saw he was barefoot.

_ He has cute toes _ , the astronaut thought, and then considered screaming and running away. Somehow, those bare toes were the most unacceptable part of the whole thing.

Instead, he just found himself repeating, “What the hell?”

The man told him, " ”

“Wait, what?” 

The impossible man who had appeared, no, emerged out of that bottle moved toward him with purposeful, confident strides. His blue eyes were fixed and unblinking as he stalked ever closer. Dean was suddenly struck with the strangest idea: he was looking at an angel. He blinked and realized the illusion was really a thin shimmering veil that wrapped around his shoulders and trailed behind him, a hint of iridescence haloing as he walked, spreading out behind him like wings. Dean’s heart was pounding in his chest in a way that even the crash landing hadn’t triggered. He’d had training to deal with the crash landing, but where was the training to deal with this? It had to be a hallucination.

“ ”

The impossible man spoke again as he stopped, barely a handbreadth away, so close Dean could feel the warmth of the sun on his skin radiating out and caressing him like a lover’s embrace. He was hypnotized by those eyes that were so large and unwavering. He looked down at his mouth, coherent thought impossible though a single clear pang of yearning rushed through him. This had to be the most vivid dream he’d ever had, he thought as the man leaned forward and pressed his lips to his. No harm in a dream. Dean yielded to the feel of the man’s lips on his as he closed his eyes.

“I must’ve hit my head on the way down,” Dean said gruffly, as the press on his lips subsided and he opened his eyes once more. Blue was all he could see until he looked down to the man’s relaxed mouth. His lips parted, and Dean could feel the urge to kiss him again growing inside of him from the deep, dark recesses of his usually repressed instincts. He nearly gave in too, his hand reaching out to the man’s near-naked hip, but the feel of taut, warm skin under his fingers made him pull back like he had accidentally stuck his hand into a spider’s web or an electrical outlet.

“Wait, are you really real?” he asked, his heart rate spiking again.

The man’s arms came up toward Dean’s face like he wanted to embrace him, those foreign, unintelligible syllables coming out of his mouth once more, and Dean dodged him quickly before putting his hands on his bare shoulders and guiding him to sit down on the nearby rock jutting out of the sandy beach. Then Dean took a good five steps back and tried to regain his bearings. His toe nudged something on the ground, and he bent down to look at the bottle the man had come out of more closely. It was made of an ornate, opaque glass and had a very long neck with a flared lip at the top. The base was rounded and decorated with delicate golden filigree. Dean couldn’t help but notice that the jewels encrusted there were the exact same shade of blue as the man’s eyes.

A thought struck him. It was so ridiculous he batted it away, but as his attention went from the bottle in his hands to the man watching him attentively, almost expectantly, from where he sat, it just came back and poked at him again.

“That’s impossible,” Dean muttered, trying to dismiss the outrageous thought that felt like it was equal parts fantasy and memory of a childhood story. But hadn’t he read somewhere that there was some truth to the old legends and stories from deep in the Arabian culture about such things? 

“Are you a genie?”

“ ”

“Dude, seriously, I wish you spoke English, or I spoke what you’re--”

“I asked how I can serve you, Master,” the man said, smiling just a little.

As the syllables transformed from babble to English, so did the timbre of his voice change. It was deeper, rougher, and it made Dean’s pelvic muscles twitch.

The man moved closer again, hands going for Dean’s belt buckle. “I can speak any language you like, in fact, including--”

“Hey!” Dean said, irritated at his current inability to say anything clearly. “What the hell, buddy? That’s not happening.”

“Why not?” the man asked, blue eyes wide and guileless.

Dean shook his head. “Look, you’re a genie, right?”

“Oh, yes, Master.”

“OK, none of that master stuff. I set you free, OK? No more genie enslavement for you.”

The man looked at him in an evident daze. “What?”

“‘I’m not going to demand three wishes, OK? Besides, I used up one wishing you could speak English, right?” Dean smiled, feeling on top of things for the first time in this conversation. “So there you go. I spend my second wish on setting you free.” A horrible realization struck him with the force of bad gin. “Oh, damn it!”

“What is it, Master?” the man asked with desperate concern.

“Nothing, just...well, could I have something else for my second wish, and then set you free on the third wish?”

The man looked equal parts delighted and sly. “Of course, Master.”

Before Dean could ask another question, he heard a helicopter and looked up at the sky in deep relief. “Over here!” he shouted, waving his arms. “Over here.”

“I do believe they see you, Master.” 

With a little shake, Dean turned back to his savior. “OK, so I have everything I want, and you’re free, and we’re all good, OK? Except.” He looked around. This place was more a sandbar with a couple trees on it than an island. “They can’t see you, all right? Get back in your bottle until they’re gone, would you?”

The man smiled again, and there was something oddly sweet about it. “Of course, Master.”

“No, no. No more master stuff. Just, this is a favor, OK? Hide in your bottle until they’re gone, then, you know, have a great life.” Dean smiled broadly even as the sound of the ‘copter grew louder.

“As you wish.”

The man turned into a pillar of blue smoke, which then went into the bottle. Dean smiled and gathered his gear for his rescue, not noticing when the bottle rolled itself into the middle of his liferaft.

A few minutes later, the ‘copter had landed, and after a few heartfelt slaps to the shoulders, Dean was off, heading back to the Cape where he would have no time to ponder the hallucination he couldn’t quite put out of his mind.


	2. Chapter 2

“You sure you didn’t hit your head on the way down?” Sam asked, looking at his brother with genuine concern.

“Blue smoke! And then he’s standing there, and, you know!” Left hand on the wheel, Dean waved his right hand wildly at his own body. Even inside his fresh-off-the-assembly-line ‘67 Chevy with only his brother riding with him, he wasn’t going to describe the genie’s appearance aloud. “Like something out of  _ Playboy _ , almost, but for chicks.”

Sam frowned at him.

“I’m just saying, he was dressed for some kinky, bedroom sex play or something.”

Sam shook his head and looked out the windscreen. “Are you going to tell Charlie about this?”

“I dunno man. I think this might be a little out there, even for her. I don’t want to end up in an asylum!”

“Well, that’s something.”

Dean shot his baby brother what he figured was a good “shut up,” glare and then put his eyes back on the road. Drivers in Florida were nuts, and Dean was just famous enough to get recognized and, occasionally, dared to drag. Like he would risk his career--to say nothing of his Baby--on something so juvenile.

“I’m just telling you about it because I have to tell someone. I have this nightmare where I blurt it all out to Dr. Bellows.”

Sam snorted, then shook his head. “OK, assuming I believe you, a guy in a bikini--”

“Dude, it wasn’t a bikini.”

“Fine, a half-naked man--”

“Genie”

“Whatever, comes out of a bottle. What did you wish for?”

“First, that he could speak English, ‘cause whatever he was speaking was like backward French, and then I set him free.”

Sam thought about that for a minute. “You know, it’s a damn good thing this was all just some waking dream you had.”

“Why’s that?”

“You can wish for anything and you didn’t wish for the solution to our rocket problems? The equation we need for achieving an elliptical orbit? You didn’t wish for the Russians not to attack us? For the war to be over?”

“Aw, c’mon, Sam. You’ve seen  _ The Twilight Zone _ . You know how those kinds of wishes always turn out. Besides, I wasn’t really thinking about… you know, that kind of stuff.”

“Yeah, I can pretty much guess what you were thinking about. You gotta put that stuff behind you, Dean. You’re getting married.”

Sam shook his head again as Dean pulled up the drive of his bungalow. Sam headed for the front door, just a half-step behind his brother, a post-workday ritual they had started when they had been assigned their separate NASA bungalows on the same block. Dean was damn proud of his little brother making the cut into the science division. The nerd. 

“I know I’m getting married, Sam. You don’t have to keep reminding me,” Dean said with a grumble as they crossed the threshold into his “charmingly modern,” NASA-provided (and approved) house: wall-to-wall light grey carpeting and eggshell painted walls. Even the picture frames hanging in perfect symmetry over the living room fireplace were no more than generic photographs picked by the designer for a bachelor astronaut: all American hero. Sam closed the front door behind him.

“Sometimes, I think you forget.”

“Sometimes you’re kind of a brat.”

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

Dean caught Sam rolling his eyes and he couldn’t help smirking. Poking fun at his brother had been one of his favourite things since they were children, and he often found himself reverting to the childish behaviour when they were alone, especially when his stomach would get all knotted up with stress, like it was now.

Sam handed him a tumbler with a single finger of his finest whiskey, from the smell of it. “I was saving that for a special occasion.”

“You walk away unscathed from a capsule tumble in a manned abort, sue me for thinking that’s kind of a big deal.”

“We train for that kind of thing.”

“Well, I don’t care. We’re drinking your stupid top-shelf whiskey.”

Sam clinked his own glass against Dean’s and swallowed the amber liquid in one go, while Dean swirled his around pensively, breathing in the heady bouquet before finally swallowing the warm, smoky liquid, savouring the high notes of tobacco and peat on his tongue.

“Speaking of the future Mrs. Winchester. Your fiancé is headed up the walk.”

Sam handed Dean his now-empty tumbler and turned to greet his future sister-in-law (and General Roman’s daughter), while Dean headed to the built-in bar at the back of the living room to rinse out the glasses. Something nestled amongst his bottles of liquor drew his attention away from the front door reunion, though, something with a long neck and encrusted blue jewels.

He looked around the room wildly, turning every which way as he moved out from behind the mahogany bar and toward the center of the bungalow searching for the bottle’s inhabitant. There was no one around, though, apart from Sam and now Charlie, who made her way toward him and came to a crashing halt against his chest, her arms holding him tightly.

“Oh, thank God. I was so worried.”

“I’ll leave you two to your reunion. Dean, are we still on for poker tomorrow night?”

“Sure, if you’re feeling up to losing your money again.”

The mischievous grin on his brother’s face left Dean without a doubt that he knew exactly what kind of trouble he was putting him in as he took his leave, closing the front door behind him.

The little redhead in his arms took a step back and away from him, curling her fists on her hips.

“You know how I feel about gambling, Dean.”

“It’s Sam! He’ll never beat me. Besides, what happened to being happy to see me?”

With a smile she moved closer and stood on her toes as she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. The feel of her in his arms was welcome and familiar, a comfortable return to his normal life and he held her close, even as deep blue eyes swam up, unbidden, from behind his closed eyelids. She pulled away, and Dean looked down at her with a slight frown.

“That was nice.”

“Just practicing for the big day.”

“Right,” Dean said, letting his arms swing back to his sides, wondering how much of his beachside experience he should tell her.

Which is when he heard the soft sound of a door clicking open. Dean’s brain felt muddled and slow as he looked up beyond Charlie’s fire red hair to the bedroom door that now hung open, the doorway filled by the man from the beach; his black hair was damp and curling messily, his bare shoulders glistened with pearled water droplets and his hips were swathed semi-indecently in one of his white towels.

Dean’s brain emitted a high-pitched squeal, like a hot kettle on the stovetop as Charlie turned to face whoever was standing behind her. His previously pleasant beach hallucination was turning into a full-on waking nightmare.

“Um… Dean? Not that I want to seem unsupportive or anything but, what the hell?”

“I can explain.” No he couldn’t. “This isn’t what it seems.” What the fuck did this seem like? “Uh,” he trailed off, nothing but that high-pitched whistle in his ears as he watched his carefully manicured life falling apart.

“I thought we had agreed that you wouldn’t bring your lovers to the house, Dean! We have appearances to keep up. What if my father saw him here? Have you thought about that?”

“That’s, no, that’s not what this is.”

“That doesn’t really matter, does it? One rumour and your career is over. Just stick to the plan. First we get married, and then we can both quietly pursue our sexual preferences with our respectable cover in place.”

“Who is she, Master?” The man from the bottle was frowning deeply, his arms crossed over his chest.

Dean pinched his nose.

“Master? Seriously, Dean. Get your shit together and fix whatever this is. My father is going to be here later and this is just… all kinds of wrong.”

Charlie whirled around and reached for the door. Dean could do nothing to hold her back, his mind stunned by the catastrophic turn of events. He watched her leave, convinced that this would be the end of everything for him: his career, his plan, his life, and his very definition of who he really was.


	3. Chapter 3

“Do you wish me to retrieve her for you, Master?”

“What? No. No, just, just please be quiet for a minute.” Dean breathed in, out, in, out. This was just another problem, and he knew how to work the problem. He’d kept calm in the face of being burned alive, of ditching in the middle of the ocean, of exploding into a million pieces. He could handle a genie in a towel.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “I set you free.”

“Yes,” Castiel said with overt satisfaction. “And so I am free to serve you forever, Master.”

Dean’s stomach rolled over. “That is just so not going to happen.” He turned and instantly averted his eyes. The guy was using a hand towel, for the love of Pete. “And would you please put some clothes on?”

“Certainly, Master.” The genie crossed his arms.

“And I don’t mean that harem boy outfit!”

Castiel looked at him in surprise. “You do not find my clothing appealing, Master?”

“No!”

The genie blinked, and now he was wearing a US Air Force uniform exactly like Dean’s. “Is this better?”

Dean was tempted to say yes, so relieved was he that those tapered legs and strong thighs were finally covered, but . . . “No. No, that’s not for civilians.”

“What do civilians wear, Master?”

“Stop calling me that. Look, my name is Dean, Dean Winchester What’s your name?”

The genie’s blue eyes widened ever so slightly and then frowned their way into an intense stare. “You wish to know my name, Master?”

“Dean.”

“I will be Dean if you like, Master.”

“No.” Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. He was not going to lose it. “No. I’m Dean, and I want to know your own, real name, OK?”

For a moment, Dean thought the genie was going to refuse. Then he said, his voice lower than before, “I am Castiel.”

Dean nodded, feeling almost proud of the genie for coughing that up. “OK. Castiel. That’s great. And now, some regular clothes.”

“But what sort of clothes, Master?”

“I don’t--” Looking around, Dean grabbed a magazine off the table, flipped it open to the first cigarette ad he found, and pointed. “Here, just dress like this.”

“As you wish, Master.” Castiel blinked again, and then he was wearing a tan trench coat over a dark blue suit with a white shirt, blue tie, and black shoes. Even his hair looked shorter, though it still stuck out at angles like the wind had dishevelled it just before. Unfortunately, while the suit and tie were exactly like what was in the ad, they were also the perfect color to enhance the blue of Castiel’s eyes. God, even the genie’s damn neck was sexy. And it didn’t help at all that the guy in the ad hadn’t been clean-shaven. A hint of dark stubble just accented the man’s strong jawline and cleft chin.

_ I am so screwed _ , Dean thought.

“All right,” he said firmly. “It’s time we got some things straight around here.”

“I agree, Master,” the genie said, his voice still low. “Such as who that woman was and why she said you were getting married.”

“That woman is Charlie Roman, and she’s the daughter of General Roman, and she said we’re getting married because we are.” 

Castiel looked insulted. “That red-headed demon?”

“She’s a lovely person and a great friend of mine.”

Castiel’s lips went a little sly. “I can please you so much more than she ever could, Master.” He took a slow step toward Dean. “So very much more.”

“No,” Dean said. “This has gone far enough. Now, Charlie and her father are coming for dinner tonight.” Dean grabbed the genie by his shoulders and shook him urgently. “My whole future is coming here, and you have to go.”

“But you don’t really want me to go,” Castiel said.

“OK, I’m sorry about this, Cas, but I command you to go.”

Castiel just laughed.

Dean shook his head, backing away. “You have to do what I say!”

“I did, and then you set me free. I’m not going anywhere.”

Castiel had been slowly moving towards him and Dean found himself taking a step back as his heart rate suddenly spiked. “What are you doing?”

He did not answer, instead he took another slow step towards him, his eyes boring deep into his own and he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, his mind a complete, numbed buzz again. His leg hit something soft, stopping his progress, but it did nothing to stop Castiel as he moved in closer. Dean’s stomach suddenly swooped as he over-balanced and found himself landing stretched out on his living room sofa. He scrambled back as Castiel came over the arm of the sofa, and stretched himself above Dean’s prone body and panicking mind.

Castiel’s lips pressed down on his, and his blood felt like ice and fire from the contact as he stared wide-eyed at the genie’s close-up features, like being able to count his lashes would save him from that intense gaze once his lids opened again.

“No,” Dean said, finding his voice again and pushing back against the layers of clothing covering the shoulders above him.

Castiel pulled back, his confused frown back on his face as he watched Dean extricate his limbs from under him and slide to the floor before jumping up again. Castiel moved to stand as well, but Dean was faster, holding out his hands towards him with a quick “Stay!”

Dean backed up until he felt his trusty recliner behind him and sat down, facing Castiel who was sitting a very respectable distance away. Dean watched him adjust his position until he was a mirror image of Dean’s stiff posture.

“I do not understand, Master. Why do you resist me?”

“Because, you’re a man.”

“Yes.”

“And I’m a man.”

“Yes.”

“And two men can’t-- do. Um… that.”

Castiel’s frown deepened. After a moment, it was clear that Dean’s explanation had not helped him understand. “Why not?”

“Because it’s un-American.”

“I am not American.”

“Yeah well, you’re in America, so we have to play by the rules.”

Castiel sat, and thought. Or at least Dean assumed he was thinking since he was staring intently at a spot on the rug about a foot away from the tip of his black shoes. Dean watched him and found that the more he did, the more his own thoughts turned towards the man’s inescapable eyes… and his mouth… and the fit body that was currently hiding under all those layers of clothes.

Castiel looked up like he had somehow heard or seen what he had been thinking about and Dean startled out of his reverie again, a warm blush creeping up his neck.

“In my culture, we do not treat pleasure as anything other than pleasure. We worship the body and the mind and the fusion of the two that turns passion into bliss. There is no shame in it.”

“That… I don’t know what that would even be like.”

“I could show you, Master.”

“No funny business,” warned Dean, after a moment.

Castiel did not respond, did not move, in fact, it seemed like he did nothing at all and yet the world around Dean had shattered and remade itself into something completely different and foreign. Gone were his respectable sofas and his respectable carpeting. Gone were the perfectly symmetrical if generic NASA-approved photographs over his fireplace… the fireplace was nowhere to be seen either actually. His living room had been replaced by something like Rock Hudson’s apartment in  _ Pillow Talk. _

Dean found himself sitting back on a large, thickly-padded pillow of soft blue fabric with golden tassels. Layers of bright coloured Persian rugs covered the floor space between more large pillows that had been scattered haphazardly about the room. Instead of the ceiling, gauzy drapes flowed down in billowing layers held back by golden bars softening the hard angles of the rectangular space. A heady smell wafted over him, making him feel strangely dizzy as he sank deeper into the pillow. He could feel his body relaxing in a way that it had not in what felt like forever. Strange foreign notes played on strange foreign instruments accompanied by the deep thrum of large drums, making Dean’s heart flutter and thump as it tried to match its beating to the tattoo.

Standing in the middle of it all, appearing out of the smoke and shadows like he was no more than air and light himself, was Castiel dressed in his own dark blue clothes that shifted on imperceptible air currents as he began to move his body to the rhythm of the drums, swaying his hips to the melody of the flutes. Dean could not take his eyes off of him as his body pulsed and writhed and his arms, and hips and chest seemed to move in different directions and yet flowed into each other so gracefully.

All sense of time and place evaporated from Dean’s mind as he watched, mesmerized by the evocative beauty and grace of the dancing genie. He was drawn to him as surely as any nighttime insect was drawn to the light that would burn it. And he was most definitely burning. He could feel it in his boiling blood, and in his loins as he slowly stood and took a step towards the dancing blue flame and smoke that was Castiel.

The genie shot him a look of pure sin, and while half of Dean--particularly the lower half--responded eagerly, his heart froze in terror.

What the hell was he doing? What the hell was he thinking?

“Cas!” he shouted.

The genie stopped moving and looked at him in concern.

“Yes, Master?”

“Uh, not here!”

“I can take us wherever you would like, Master.”

“Your, uh, your bottle. Can we go in there?”

“Of course, Master.” Castiel frowned at him. “Why, though?”

Dean shrugged. “So no one will see us. Um, please get into the bottle, OK? Make sure...uh, make sure it’s good. And then I’ll come in after you, all right?”

Cas smiled with great promise. “Of course, Master.” And then he turned into a blue plume of smoke and went into the bottle. Dean scrambled out of the chair and threw himself at the bottle, closing his palm over it. Looking around wildly, he spotted the stopper and plugged the bottle.

“Sorry, Cas,” he muttered. He did feel bad about tricking the genie, but it was impossible. This whole thing was impossible. He would lose everything. His career, NASA, space, his reputation: everything would be taken from him. He’d be drummed out of the Air Force with every dishonorable term in the book. He might end up in Leavenworth. 

No, no. He had to get this bottle and its temptations away from him. He looked around the room at all the pillows and rugs and things, and the idea of hiding the bottle dissolved as his panic ratcheted up. How could he explain this? What possible story could he make up?

He thought of Sam, but what could Sam do? Besides, if Sam got his hands on Cas, he would probably make one of those wishes for world peace, and then who knew what would happen?

Dean rushed outside, his eyes going to the shiny trash can his neighbor had put out. In a wave of relief, he chucked the bottle into the trash, made sure no one saw him, then ran back into his home.

On his knees in his living room, he pulled at the rugs, relieved to see his carpet underneath. It wouldn’t be so bad. He could pile some of the junk into the trash and the rest in his bedroom before the general and Charlie got there. He rolled up one rug, then another, then lifted them, staggering a bit under their weight.

With difficulty, he got the door open and lugged his rugs back to the curb. With satisfaction, he let them fall to the pavement. They were nice rugs. Maybe someone would pick them up before the garbage truck. . . 

_ Oh God _ , Dean thought. He hadn’t thought about the truck. He thought about it now, though, with that giant crushing mechanism. What the hell would that do to Cas in his bottle?

His stomach sinking to his shoes, Dean realized his mistake. He ran the few steps over to his neighbor’s can, then shoved his hands into the papers and shiny things inside.

“What are you doing in my trash?” an angry voice demanded, and he turned to see, of all things, his neighbor standing there in his driveway.

“I just, I, um, I threw something in here and want it back,” Dean said, grabbing onto something in the can but only pulling up the base of a broken table lamp. 

“Get your hands out of there!” the neighbor--what was the guy’s name, anyway?--shouted.

A half-second before he just knocked the whole trash can over to let it all spill out onto the street, Dean’s right hand closed around Cas’ bottle.

“See?” he asked, holding it aloft. “This isn’t yours, can’t you tell? I just dropped it in your trash can by mistake!”

“How do I know it’s not mine?” the neighbor demanded.

“Can you tell me what’s inside?” 

The man scowled. “No.”

“Well, I can!” With that, Dean turned and ran back into his house.

The rush of panic flooded his blood with adrenaline and although he was aware that to any outside observer he probably looked and sounded manic, he was incapable of behaving any differently. He slammed the front door behind him and set the bottle down on the bartop. Quickly he backed away out of arm’s reach and stared at the jewel-encrusted glass like what it contained was the most dangerous of creatures. Which it probably did. Dean ran his hand over his face, realizing he had broken out in a nervous sweat. He undid the buttons of his uniform shirt, suddenly desperate for some cool air as he yanked it off his shoulders and tossed it aside in a crumpled ball. He would have to iron it out later, he thought instead of reaching down to pick it up like what had been ingrained in him through years of strict training. Instead, he turned and leaned his arms down against the sofa arm and focused on his breathing.

A delicate  _ clunk _ of glass on hardwood sounded behind him, and he squeezed his eyes shut, hoping against hope that somehow his imagination was running wild. When he heard the muted  _ thud  _ a moment later, he knew it was more than an overactive imagination and when he turned around he would see the genie’s bottle on the carpeted ground.

The stopper had come to rest a half a foot away from the neck of the bottle, and he straightened up again, looking around the room for the genie. Out of the clear air, smokey particles coalesced into a column of blue and took on the form of Castiel, his eyes smouldering in wrath.

“You tricked me.”

“Cas, I--”

“You threw me into the trash!” The genie stormed up to him, and Dean’s breath hitched again at the lightning in his gaze and the stiff, determined set of his posture. “I helped you, I want nothing more than to make your wishes and desires reality, and this is how you treat me? Me, an all-powerful being! You should show me some respect.”

“Yes, sir!” Dean was surprised to hear himself say. It had been a knee-jerk reflex, and he looked away from the fervent glare, finding it hard to swallow.

His mind conjured up the feel of lips pressing against his and of hands gripping him tightly. He closed his eyes again, fighting the sinful desire. As he stood there, braced to fight and fighting the instinct to high tail it the hell away from there, he also slowly became aware of something being so very out of place. Something felt wrong, missing, empty like a vacuum had sucked out something important and left behind a hole in the fabric of time and space.

He opened his eyes. Castiel was gone.

The twist that had been squeezing Dean’s stomach from the moment Castiel had puffed out of his bottle and strolled across the sandy beach towards him loosened, only to be replaced by a hard pit. He couldn’t be just… gone.

Dean called out to him. There was no answer. He apologized, praying he was listening even if he weren’t showing himself. But the air did not stir. He scurried around the rooms of his bachelor’s bungalow, looking behind and under furniture, the shower curtain, the bed sheets, the couch pillows… up the damn chimney.

Nothing.

He couldn’t just be gone, it could not end that way. A soft breeze billowed the gauzy curtains in the living room, and he rushed out onto his perfectly manicured lawn, not caring he was in his undershirt. Finally, he spotted him, nothing more than a plume of smoke, just over the brick privacy wall between him and his neighbour’s house.

“Cas! Thank God,” he said fervently to the plume. “Listen, man, I’m so sorry about what happened. I’ve been hiding for so long, I don’t even know where to begin. But you’re right. By God and his angels and Satan and his demons below, you’re right. I want you. You set my soul on fire. And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that. Please, just-- come back inside.”

“What the HELL is going on here?!” suddenly spoke up an outraged man’s voice, startling Dean away from where he was leaning against the brick wall. A second glance revealed to him the mistake he had made, realizing too late that he had been baring his soul to a damn BBQ, while his neighbours, Mr. and Mrs. Singer, enjoyed the pleasant Florida spring air.

Dean scrambled back apologizing profusely as he almost tripped over his own feet to get away from the man now waving red-hot prongs at him.

“Dean?”

He startled around, coming face-to-face with his red-headed fiancé and her father.

“G-General Roman!”

“How do you know my wife?” Mr. Singer shouted over the fence.

“Major Winchester,” the general said, scowling in a way that made Dean want to do fifty pushups and maybe run a few miles, preferably to some place very far away.

“Dean?” Charlie asked.

“I don’t know him!” Mrs Singer was yelling now.

“Let’s go inside, Major.” Taking his daughter’s hand, the general marched to the front door and was in his house before Dean could get his feet to move.

Remembering the state of his living room, and stifling a decidedly un-astronaut shriek, Dean ran inside after him, only to find the decor was all back to normal. Even the scent of the incense was gone, and his wrinkle-free uniform shirt was hanging on his closet door knob.

“Oh, thank God,” he breathed out, resisting the urge to put his hands on his knees and close his eyes for a while. Instead, he closed the door and turned to the two most important people in his life (after his brother).

“General, I have to apologize,” he began.

“Dad,” Charlie said, giving her father a little-girl smile. “Dean is just tired from the excitement the last couple days. Crash landing, and everything. He just needs a few days to recover, and he’ll be right as rain. Maybe a nice long honeymoon.” She turned to smile dazzlingly at Dean. “Right, honey?”

“Um, right.” Dean nodded, then held himself completely still when Cas appeared behind the general, dressed in his genie attire but still parodying the general completely, from his expression to the stiff posture and even to the air of command. It really didn’t help that Dean found it incredibly arousing. “I mean no! I’m perfectly fine, General. Ready for duty.”

“I see,” General Roman said, his tone making it clear he didn’t. Cas aped the sentence silently, and Dean pursed his lips in disapproval. Dean turned away, putting his shirt on his shoulders and buttoning each button with precision. Nothing in his life was as important as being an astronaut. Travel to the stars, what could possibly top that? His life was just what he wanted, and he was going to marry Charlie so they could protect each other against the world. And when the history books talked about Major Dean Winchester, there wasn’t going to be a scandalous footnote about how he liked cock.

He turned back to his fiancé and her father, and there was Cas, looking at him with brilliant blue, clever eyes. How was it that the people who most perfectly defined his inner most desires had come to be standing right there in his living room, right when he seemed to be in the middle of whatever the fuck was going on in his head? General Roman was the reason he was in the astronaut program in the first place. He was successful, in control, rigid. Then there was Castiel, assertive, confident and free. Who was Dean Winchester? What did he want out of life? And Charlie, she was his mask, she was his normal. And she was caught in the middle. Shit.

“Charlie, we need to talk,” he said.

Cas just stood there while Charlie made some sort of excuse to her father about going out to dinner, and in a few minutes the general had left them alone. It occurred to Dean that the others couldn’t see the genie, and once the door closed behind his commanding officer, he knew, to Charlie, he was now just staring at a blank space in the living room.

“Dean?” she asked quietly.

“I”m so sorry, Charlie,” he said, looking at her, this little spark of nuclear power he would be proud to call . . . his sister, his friend, his anything but his wife.

“Dean, seriously, if this has anything to do with the man who was here this morning, I can understand,” she said, face drawn in worry. “But you have to talk to me.”

“Cas?” he asked, looking over at the now-quite-serious genie.

Charlie’s gasp and two steps backward were Dean’s clues he’d become visible to her.

“What the hell?”

Cas smiled, looking instantly friendly. “You’re American.”

“What?” she asked.

“Dean said men feeling for men isn’t American.” Cas’ eyes went to Dean’s. “Marrying you is American.”

“You’re damn clever for someone who’s been trapped in a bottle for 2,000 years,” Dean muttered.

It took another twenty minutes, Cas doing a few parlor tricks, and a nice shot of bourbon before Charlie was sitting on the couch, nodding with understanding. But by then, she’d reminded Dean why, of all the women in the world, she was someone he could have spent his life with, even with the lie they would’ve had to live, until Cas showed up.

“But that was after I became a genie,” Cass was saying.

“So, who turned you into a genie?” she asked.

“An evil genie who was angry I would not give into her charms,” Cas said. He shook his head for emphasis. “No one ever said no to her, but frankly I thought her tits were saggy and her attitude was toxic.”

Charlie giggled.

“I told her there was no way I was putting any part of my body into proximity with hers, and then the next thing I knew, she was chanting and throwing blue dust everywhere. I blacked out, and when I woke up, I was a genie.”

“What a bitch!” Charlie said, shocking Dean slightly.

“Ever since then, I have had to obey one master after another, until Dean here.” Cas smiled at the man in question so sweetly Dean thought he might swoon or something equally ridiculous. “The very first thing he did was set me free.”

“Oh, how wonderful!” Charlie said, applauding.

“So, naturally, I knew I could never let him go, though he has been pretending he wants me to.”

“Hey!” Dean said.

“Dean kind of has this thing where he tells you the opposite of what he really wants,” Charlie said, paying the man in question no mind when he repeated his  _ Hey! _ “But I know what he wants more than anything is to land on the moon.”

Castiel shrugged. “I can do that for him.”

“But that’s magic,” Charlie said, which meant Dean didn’t have to speak up. “He wants to earn it. He wants to help this country beat the Russians to the moon.”

The genie shook his head. “The Russians are nowhere near the moon. Frankly, Yuri Gagarin should have burned up in a fiery ball after that launch. It was complete chance he didn’t die.” Cas’ eyes burned a bright blue for a moment, then returned to their usual, human-looking, brilliance. “The way things are now, if the future holds, Neil Armstrong will be the first astronaut on the moon.”

“Neil Armstrong?” Dean demanded. “That wallflower?”

Cas nodded. “He’s already asking people what he should say when he takes the first steps on the moon. My vote is for, ‘Hi, Mom!’ but he’s not asking me.”

“And when does Dean make it to the moon?” Charlie asked

The genie frowned, looking away.

“It’s all right, Cas,” Dean said.

“Unless there is a massive shift in the temporal flow, Dean Winchester will be slated for Apollo 18. The Apollo missions are cancelled after 17. Americans will decide they need no further missions.”

“No further missions?” Dean shouted. “What do you mean? Once we’re on the moon we’ll need to explore every bit of it, and then build a base there and--”

“And there will be no obvious profit in landing on the moon,” Cas said. “No gold, no cure for the common cold. Americans will find the whole thing boring and demand their tax money be spent on something else.”

“But the exploration of space,” Dean said weakly. “The...entire universe.”

Cas let a moment pass. “Most people really aren’t interested in the universe, Master. Their lives are about making the rent and paying for their children’s needs. It takes exceptional minds to understand the need for space exploration, and most people, well, they’re not exceptional.”

“So I don’t make it to the moon,” Dean said. “With you or without you, I don’t make it to the moon.”

Cas gazed at his own hands while Charlie wiped away a tear. “I’m sorry, Master.”

Dean nodded, thinking about how NASA was not getting him to the moon, and nodded again.

“Cas, let’s go to the moon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anybody wanted to have an idea of what Castiel dancing for Dean might look like, here's the video inspiration. Check it out... it is so worth it:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZCfxHe5Tfx0


	4. Chapter 4

In a blink, they were all three standing on a pale, chalky surface. The sky above was dark black, and there was no air. Dean drew in a breath, but he knew it was a magic one, not something from the space around him.

“Holy cow!” Charlie said. “Oh, my God!” She twirled around, arm outstretched, then looked at Castiel. “Are we the first people on the moon?”

Cas looked uncomfortable. “Actually, you’re 154 and 155. Many people who master a genie have asked for this.”

“One hundred and fifty-fifth,” Dean said, then laughed humorously. But inside, instead of the deep disappointment he expected or the sense of being cheated, he thought, overall, the whole thing was funny. As soon as he’d accepted the reality of magic in this world, things like going to the moon had diminished in value without his even noticing.

“You could put us on Saturn, couldn’t you?” he asked Cas. “Or in another solar system.”

The genie looked down at the moon dust, his bare feet with their unacceptably cute toes half-sunk into the powder. “My powers are tied to Earth,” he said. “I could take you to Neptune, if you like?”

Dean smiled and shook his head. “The moon is good enough.”

Charlie suddenly pushed Dean off balance and he laughed as his body gently floated down to the ground like some slow-motion Looney Tunes cartoon. Then he stood and took off after her, as she leaped and bounced away in the low gravity. In the low gravity, they jumped around, Dean laughing his ass off when Charlie did The Swim and the Mashed Potato during her jumps. They climbed a couple of hills, made “snow” angels, and even played a round of golf courtesy of Castiel’s magiced-up clubs.

Finally, Cas got a waltz playing from some invisible big band, and with a bow and a curtsy, Dean and Charlie twirled each other around and around the rim of a small impact crater. It was, Dean decided, the most magical moment of his life.

“I love you so very much,” Dean told Charlie, watching the way the low gravity and lack of wind played so oddly in her long, firey hair.

“And I love you,” she said back. Then she smiled, though it was a little sad. “We’ll work it all out. Don’t worry.” She looked sharply to the right, then back with a sassy grin as she punched him (not that lightly) in the arm. “Besides, you may not get into the history books as a guy on the moon, but you got a real, live genie!”

With that, she used the momentum of their turn to break away, pushing back just slightly, so that Dean shot back and into a very strong, very warm pair of arms.

Castiel laughed, a warm, comforting sound, and helped Dean turn around to face him. Against the blank canvas of moon dust and pitch-black sky, the genie’s eyes were bluer than ever, and with the ease of just another dance step, Dean leaned in and touched those full, slightly dry lips with his own. Cas instantly, gently kissed him back, and Dean’s stomach went into a dive stronger than five Gs.

Charlie cheered.

“Thank you, Cas,” Dean said, pulling back.

“I would make you this happy every day,” the genie said, “if you would only allow me to take care of you.” 

Dean looked away with a frown. He was happy, and he thought it might have very little to do with the moon, which, in the end, was just a black-and-white landscape with a stunning vista of Earth and no atmosphere. When Dean thought about going home, he felt nothing but relief at the prospect of being back on familiar ground.

“Neil Armstrong,” he muttered before Cas took them away. “What a wallflower.”

Dean took one last look at the big blue planet floating along in the cold emptiness of the cosmos and felt peaceful for the first time in many years. He felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders and he could breathe again. Charlie slipped her small hand in his and leaned her head on his shoulder. Before he could even turn towards her, the universe shifted and twisted and everything changed while the world stayed the same, and he was holding Charlie’s hand standing in the middle of his living room.

“Wow,” Charlie said, blinking her eyes quickly as she looked around.

“I know,” Dean said, his eyes locked on Castiel as he picked up the fallen bottle from beside the bar.

“Are you OK, Dean? That was a lot to take in. I can stick around for a bit, if you want to talk about it.”

“Know what? I think I’m good.” Charlie raised her eyebrows at him and he let out a nervous chuckle. “Yeah, yeah. I know. There’s a lot to process, but seriously, I’m… good.”

He smiled at her and after a short, soul-searching squinting session, Charlie moved up and wrapped her arms around his torso in a tight hug. He held her close, giving her a quick squeeze before kissing her hair and taking a step back.

“It was a pleasure to meet you Castiel.”

“And I, you. You’re lovely for a red-headed demon.”

“Thanks, I guess?”

Dean laughed at the uncertainty on her face as Castiel inclined his head towards her. Then, with a turn and a few quick steps, she left through the front door. Dean turned around, seeking out the genie in quiet expectation. He watched him a moment, standing by the bar, dressed like he was going to a fancy dress party and yet, he fit. Dean didn’t want to think about the hole in space he had felt when Castiel had disappeared in an angry puff.

Dean took the bottle from his hands and walked around the bar so he could put it on the top shelf. “It won’t get knocked over up here.”

“Thank you.”

“Welcome,” Dean mumbled, feeling uncertainty creep over him again as he looked around the room and away from the genie. What was he supposed to do now? “So, I’ve had a pretty insane day. Getting kind of tired.”

Castiel frowned but didn’t say anything. Dean turned towards his bedroom and with each step, the uncertainty grew inside him: a belly-flipping, acid-churning discomfort that followed him all the way into the other room. He closed the door and leaned back against it, his eyes closed tightly as he tried to corral his thoughts and feelings into something that made any kind of sense.

“Dean.”

The deep, gravel-scraping sound of Castiel’s voice made him open his eyes again to find that the genie was standing a foot away, staring at him hungrily. Dean’s breath hitched. He would consume his soul if he let him. But damned if he didn’t want him to do just that.

“Cas, a little personal space maybe?”

“I’ve been giving you space all day.”

Castiel took his face in his hands and pulled him into him. His lips pressed against Dean’s, demanding, not asking. Dean felt like his whole body was as tense as an arrow’s drawstring, he was fighting his instincts to punch and run away just as much as he was fighting his deeper desire to give in. Castiel moved closer, pressing his body against Dean’s as his lips explored his jaw and neck.

“I want to please you, Master.” 

Dean whimpered softly, his hands coming to rest on the man’s hips and gripping at the firm, warm skin. 

“I promise, you will feel pleasure beyond anything you’ve ever known. If you just succumb.”

A tremor shook through Dean’s body as he clung to the genie. It felt like his whole body had been set aflame, his skin so sensitive to every touch of his lips and every brush of his palms. The memory of Castiel’s dance came back to him suddenly, and all he wanted was to be consumed by the man’s heat.

Castiel moved away and Dean felt the loss of it deeply. “Cas.” He pushed up, nearly choking on his need.

Castiel sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing his hand over the blankets with a frown. With a blink, Dean’s bedroom was transformed like the living room had been earlier, silken drapes hanging from the walls and ceiling making it look like the inside of a tent. He could almost feel the Arabian desert winds beating against the firm outer fabric. His bed and dressers had been replaced by piles of large plush pillows in rich fabrics, rugs covered the ground and lamps flickered golden on low tables. Sitting back like a rajah on his throne in the middle of the space was Castiel, his eyes fixed on Dean like there was nothing more interesting than him.

“Come here.”

Dean moved forward until he was standing in front of Castiel, the flames from the lamps dancing in his irises. Castiel took his hand and pulled him down towards him until he was straddling his lap, his knees sinking into the pillow on either side of him. Castiel’s mouth was ravenous as it pressed against his again, Dean parted his lips, and Castiel’s tongue flicked inside quickly for a taste. Dean clung to his shoulders, gripping him tightly as the giddiness made him tremble inside.

He let his head fall back, trying to take a deep breath, and Castiel shifted his attention to his throat, kissing from the sensitive skin under his chin to the dip below his adam’s apple. Cas’s hands were all over his back, chest, arms. They squeezed his ass and pulled him up higher on his lap. Dean could feel the heat growing between their bodies, their clothing inconvenient barriers.

Dean ran his hand up Castiel’s chest and pulled at the neck of his shirt. With a coy little smile that made Dean’s chest flutter strangely, Castiel ran his hands over Dean’s chest again, only this time, everywhere the genie touched was bare of clothes, like the fabric of his many-layered uniform just dissolved under his fingers. Castiel continued his exploration of Dean’s newly exposed flesh with licks and kisses as he shifted their position, lifting Dean effortlessly and laying him back on a nearby cluster of pillows.

His magic hands ran down his chest and rolling stomach and lower still to his hips, disappearing the last of his clothes and leaving Dean bare and exposed for Castiel’s intense stare. He tried to turn his hips to the side, ashamed for a moment that he was hard and throbbing and wanting. God, he wanted him so badly.

“Cas,” he sighed as the man’s hand pushed his hip back into place and held him there. His lips on his chest were like an electric shock to his nerves, and he could feel the tingling shoot to his spine and down to his tailbone and tightening in his balls and all over again when his lips shifted an inch lower. Dean’s stomach and chest were heaving from trying to catch his breath by the time Castiel’s mouth reached his pelvic line. He kissed and licked down along the line getting ever closer to his throbbing cock.

Dean thought he would die when Castiel didn’t even hesitate to keep kissing him right on his most private parts. With a gasp, he felt him suck one of his balls into his mouth gently and roll around it with his tongue. A quick stroke of lava up his shaft and Castiel’s mouth wrapped him in heat and pleasure. Dean looked down and found Castiel’s blue eyes fixed upwards towards him, ever watchful as he pulled and sucked at his cock.

Dean gasped and groaned, and his head fell back against the pillows as pleasurable sensations overtook him and he finally let go of his control. As Cas worked his mouth on his cock, Dean felt his hand smooth down the inside of his thigh and back up to squeeze his ass. So lost in the feel of the man’s tongue on his tip, he barely felt it as fingers probed his tight hole.

“Relax, Dean,” said the genie as his hand replaced his mouth and stroked him slowly. The genie’s fingers were warm and slick, and they massaged and pressed as Dean loosened up enough to let him push one inside gently and then another. Dean felt himself opening around Castiel’s working fingers, and the heat grew and spread to his very core.

“Fuck, Cas!”

“Would you like more, Master?”

Dean’s insides shook and shivered and he could barely imagine what more would be like, would feel like as he felt stretched and full and hanging over the precipice already.

“Yes,” he gasped. What else could he say? He never wanted this feeling to end.

He felt his body lifted and shifted until he was perched higher on the pillows, his back propped up as Castiel settled himself between his thighs, one of Dean’s legs resting against his bare shoulder. Dean’s eyes were quick to take in the naked genie; toned muscles, neatly outlined by the rich yellow glow of the lamps. There wasn’t a hair on his chest, his skin perfectly smooth, dark nipples stiff from arousal. Dean’s eyes wandered down his stomach, noticing the treasure trail of dark hair starting just below the line where his pants had sat before. And lower still, Dean had his first glimpse of Castiel’s cock: large, firm, and erect as he stroked them both.

Castiel caught him staring, and he smiled wickedly as he leaned down to capture Dean’s mouth again. The kiss was far from gentle. It demanded a response, and Dean gave it as he wrapped his arms around Castiel’s shoulders and gripped him tightly, running a hand into the dark messy hair.

Castiel shifted their bodies and the tip of him pressed against him insistently, demanding Dean open himself up and let him in. Dean kissed the genie and moaned into his mouth, beyond caring about the noises he was making. What did it matter when they were out here in the desert, far from anything and anyone?

With another push, and a shift of Dean’s hips, Castiel slid inside smoothly, no friction to catch at either of them as he stretched him inch by inch. Dean felt the pressure building in his chest, and he gasped and cried out as he felt him bottom out, fully embedded inside him. The burn of the stretch was more pleasure than pain, and as Castiel pulled back and pushed back in slowly Dean felt better than he’d felt with any of his previous partners. It was physical, and spiritual, and overwhelming as their bodies writhed together, both of them breaking out in a thin sweat as they pressed against and into each other.

Castiel’s rhythm increased steadily as the pleasure built up, rushing toward a peak when they would both fall over into the ecstasy of their interlocked bodies. Dean moaned and cried out and Castiel sighed and grunted, pulling Dean’s hips hard as he thrust into him over and over. His thrusts became harder, wilder, and Dean reached up behind his neck and pulled him down to kiss him. Castiel’s body pressed and shifted against Dean’s straining cock, and it was like lightning had shot down his spine, straight into his balls and up his shaft. He felt it into his toes and on his scalp as Cas’ fingers ran through his hair and he called out his name as his whole body tensed and he felt his come spurting out between their bodies.

Dean clung to the writhing genie as he rocked into him a few more times before his own body became corded and tense, his muscles bulging under Dean’s fingers, and he felt the warmth of something slick spreading inside him.

Dean was still panting when Castiel drew back and pulled out leaving him feeling empty. Dean glanced down at the mess on his stomach as he sat up, the rawness in his ass not unpleasant as he wiggled around looking for tissues. They turned out to be unnecessary, though, as Castiel barely looked his way and the mess disappeared, leaving him feeling clean and smooth inside and out.

“That’s a neat trick,” Dean said appreciatively.

Castiel turned his frown on him. “Of all the magic you saw me wield for you today, this is what impresses you?”

Dean smirked considering this and nodded, knowing full well he was being an ass but enjoying the genie’s disbelieving face as he said, “It’s the small things, really.”

With intense focus, Castiel crawled up and over Dean, pressing his body into him, pinning him down at the hip as he smouldered at him. “There is nothing small about me, Dean.”

A smile tugging at his lips, Dean pulled him down to kiss his annoyed lips, feeling giddy and silly in his post sex glow. When Castiel pulled away after the languid and deeply satisfying kiss, Dean looked around and realized they were back in his quiet, conservative, bland little bungalow, lying side-by-side on his American bed.

“You know, Cas. If you feel like making yourself more at home, I kinda liked the look of that tent. Could redecorate the place a little.”

Dean leaned over Castiel and kissed him again, free of the weight of having to worry about the outside world, for now. He noticed Castiel’s hips were swathed in what he distinctly recognized as one of his pairs of white cotton boxers, and he frowned.

“Hey, you mind setting me up with some of those too, Cas?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks, I gotta squeeze the lemon.”

Dean stood up from the bed, only realizing halfway to the door that he was not in fact respectably covered up by his usual, standard issue, cotton underwear. What was holding him in place was soft, satiny, and pink.

“Cas!” he yelled out.

“What is it, Master? You don’t like them?”

Problem was, he kinda did.


End file.
